Moriarty's Creation
by Henlyra
Summary: Everybody thought that Moriarty was an invention of Sherlock Holmes, but was if it was the other way around? (Set after The Sign of Three)
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock quickly leafed through his case files, noticing but not acknowledging John standing behind him.

"Sherlock," John said evenly. Sherlock stood up and turned around, not taking his eyes off the file he held in his hands. Neither of them noticed Mary standing in the door way until she cleared her throat, making John jump.

"Our cab's here," she said to John before going back downstairs. John nodded to the now empty door way, turning back to Sherlock.

"Well I have to go. Take care of yourself, Sherlock. Don't burn down Baker Street, don't poison anyone, and most importantly, don't kill anyone," John said to Sherlock who only seemed to be half listening. "Greg will be by once a week to check on you so try not to have anything highly illegal in the flat. I'll see you in a couple months." With that john grabbed his jacket and headed downstairs.

"I'm not a child, John. I can take care of myself!" Sherlock yelled after him. John rolled his eyes as he closed to door to 221B. It was only 3 months after all.

-1 month later-

Sherlock threw his files across the room scattering them all over the floor of the flat. He had been working on this case for almost 3 weeks now and still hadn't gotten anywhere. His mind felt as if it had been drained of any helpful or relevant information but at the same time he also felt more alive than he had for a very long time. He slept only when he could no longer stand up and only ate about once every two days. According to Lestrade he looked like hell but he couldn't care less about his appearance or what people like the detective inspector thought of him.

His mind buzzed as he looked at the papers on the ground. He felt a manic laughter rise in his throat but he seemed to hear it from far away as if it weren't coming from him but from another person very far away.

_He felt the blood drip down his hand. Not his own. A work of his own creation._

_Screams echoed in his head, ringing in his ears like an orchestra of badly tuned instruments. He would have to tune them himself._

Sherlock looked down at the papers at his feet picking up the one closest to him. It was the part of the file Moriarty has given him on his false identity, Richard Brookes. Sherlock sighed quietly. He would never admit it but he always considered Moriarty's death to be his biggest failure. Moriarty _was _him. Moriarty had been woven into him as if he had never been a single being but rather a part of another.

_He wasn't real._

_Only a part of another. Not a part of him but a part of his victim's pleas. His friend's joyful laughter._

_Authors note: I will update ASAP_


	2. Chapter 2

After three months John finally returned to London. The first thing he did after unpacking was head to Baker Street. London was just like he remembered it. Busy and loud, but still beautiful. When he got to Sherlock's flat he just walked in, not bothering to knock, and ran upstairs.

"Sher-," John began to say but no one was there. He checked every room, even the ones which he had been told on multiple occasions not to enter, but still nothing. Mrs. Hudson was out with friends according to a note she had left on her door and nobody else would have seen where Sherlock had gone.

Suddenly, John realized something was missing but he couldn't put his finger on it. He looked around, checking off things in his head. **Skull, check. Violin, check. Laptop, check. Case files…** The case files! All of Sherlock's case files were missing, even the ones that weren't so much cases but notes on tobacco ash.

John ran downstairs an out the door, hailing a cab. He had to see Lestrade.

Lestrade looked up from his desk as he heard a loud knock at his office door. He set down his papers and stood up. Slowly, the door was open from the other side to reveal John Watson.

"Oh, hello John. I wasn't expecting you," Lestrade said, sitting down again. "How was your trip?" John entered the office, shutting the door behind him. Something seemed off about the Detective Inspector, almost like he was nervous.

"Do you know where Sherlock is?" John said, watching Lestrade as he fiddled with a pen, refusing to look John in the eye.

"I was going to call you but I didn't was to interrupt your trip," he said, sweating slightly. He cleared his throat and looked up at John. "Sherlock is missing."

Sudden anger boiled up in him.

"What do you mean he's missing!? You should have called me!" John yelled. He took a deep breath before saying, "How long?"

"About two weeks." John breathed deeply, trying to control his anger.

"Two weeks? How?" he hissed, clutching the back of the chair in front of him. Lestrade swallowed hard before finally meeting John's eye.

"Moriarty has returned."

**_Authors note: Sorry for the short chapter._**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock jumped out of the cab, throwing a wad of cash at the driver. He had asked Mycroft to pay all of his cabs in advance for the next year so he wouldn't have to bother with paying when he was in a hurry, but the older brother refused, saying that he didn't have that kind of power (which, of course, was a lie). Sherlock now walked briskly toward the old, run down house, eyes fixed upon then cracked door that was falling off its rusty hinges. When he reached the door he simply kicked it down rather than bothering with forcing it open. He was immediately surprised by the interior of the house. It was not two stories as it appeared on the outside but rather one big room with a high ceiling. The room was furnished with expensive blue sofas and arm chairs along with silver tapestries and curtains which hung lazily across the windows. The entire left wall was covered in tall bookshelves that held old dusty biographies of people long since dead. On the right wall however, there was nothing but a stone fireplace, which happen to be lit with a soft, crackling fire. In front of the fire was one of the many blue armchairs. The whole house gave a feeling of sophistication, which, as Sherlock knew, fit the man who owned it perfectly.

"I rather liked that door," said a soft voice. A dark haired man rose from the chair in front of the fireplace. He walked gracefully up to the detective, his eyes piercing Sherlock's in a way that would send a shiver down any man's spine.

Except Sherlock's. Never Sherlock's.

He grinned slightly to himself. The game was not, in fact, over. It was only beginning.

_He could tear everything down. Watch it burn. But why would he destroy something so beautiful? What would be the point in ripping apart his greatest creation?_

"Oh how I've missed you," Moriarty whispered softly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly.

"You know why I'm here," Sherlock said, not breaking eye contact.

"The case files? No, we both know that's not really what you came for at all, is it?" Moriarty said, still whispering. "You came for me! I must say, I'm a flattered, really. I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten about me."

_If only you knew._

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began walking around the room, deducing.

_Maybe it's time you knew._

He almost immediately found his case file in a box beside one of the couches. He bent down to pick them up only stand back up again, turning around.

"You don't care about the case files. You could find out anything you wanted about any of my cases with the snap of your fingers. So why take mine?" Sherlock asked, pressing his hands together tightly. Moriarty laughed, shaking his head.

"You really don't know," he mumbled in disbelief.

"Know what?"

"You have disappointed me yet again," he said louder now.

_Burn._

"These aren't your case files. They never were. They aren't even your cases."

Sherlock's mind went blank.

"I don't-," Sherlock began to say. Moriarty laughed manically, eyes gleaming.

_Yes._

"I CREATED YOU AND EVERY CASE YOU EVERY HAD! I GAVE YOU YOUR NAME, I GAVE YOU YOUR FAME," Moriarty almost screamed. "AND MOST IMPORTANTLY – I. GAVE. YOU. JOHN."

_Oh, the blood on his hands._

Sherlock heard Moriarty's words from far away. He shut out his thoughts and his deductions for the first time in his life. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. Then everything was black.

_**Author's note: Sorry for any typos or whatever. I am half asleep but wanted to finish this so I will edit when I am more rested. Also, sorry again for the late update.**_


End file.
